


Umbatron

by frictionsound200



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Supernatural
Genre: Basically, Crack, F/M, M/M, OH GOD WHY, Umbatron, two most hated people in fandom together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-14 16:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3417575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frictionsound200/pseuds/frictionsound200
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When, Metatron finally gives Castiel his Grace back, the angels decide to fling him into an alternate universe, far away from them. He ends up in the universe of........Harry Potter! Will Metatron fit into this new world? Will he be able to find true love and enact true evil with the only person people hate more than him? Find out if I can possibly finish this story!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Then I Saw Her Face

In reality, Metatron thought, it hadn’t been an unreasonable expectation that he would be banished. After that kicked puppy Castiel had manipulated him into returning his grace to him, he was no use to anyone in heaven. He had been given two choices: rot in prison forever or be banished to an alternate universe, powerless, with no possible way of returning. And they had called themselves merciful! Oh, what a tragic ending for this victim turned villain turned hero turned…villain again… Dammit, he needed to work on his autobiography. It would probably be an acclaimed, best-selling work in this…Where was he?

He was sitting on a curb in a suburban area. A woman was talking loudly on the phone in the house behind him, and her dialect proved that he was somewhere in this universe’s equivalent of Southern England. Before making any other decisions, Metatron tested to see if his powers were still working. He snapped his fingers, and the tire of the car next to him was shredded to ribbons. He tried to summon lightning from the overcast sky, but no dice. Alright, so he still had angelic abilities, though somewhat diminished.

Getting to his feet, he decided to check out the geography of this world. He tried to fly to London, but he didn’t move. To his slowly dawning horror, he realized that his wings had disappeared. But how? If he still had his powers…

In frustration, he turned on the spot looking for a plant or cat or something to kill, and, with a crack, suddenly found himself in the heart of London. What in the name of his glorious holy self was going on?! He turned again, and transported five blocks down the street. OK, so teleportation in this ridiculous universe requires ballet skills!

He was just about to turn again and see if he could get to Hawaii for a pina colada when a tall, black-haired man laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Sir,” he whispered angrily, “you should know better than to apparate in public. You could be reported for such actions.”

Metatron drew himself to his fullest height (which was still tiny) and said, “Reported to whom, may I ask?”

The tall man looked down at him with suspicion and confusion and replied, “Why, to the Ministry of Magic, of course.”

Metatron’s jaw dropped. “Magic! You mean this is a universe with wizards and mythical creatures!”

“Oh dragon dung,” his companion sighed, looking quite put upon. “What’s your name?”

“Metatron.” 

“Well," he leaned in and looked at Metatron meaningfully in the eyes, "you’re a wizard Metatron.”

Metatron let out a very annoying laugh. “Of course! Of course I would be a powerful being in a universe of magic! Hahaaa! What is your name, good sir?”

“Runcorn,” Runcorn said, looking more bemused than ever.

“Well, Runcorn, if you wouldn’t mind directing me to this Ministry of Magic, it seems like a place I ought to see.”

“I suppose so,” Runcorn said slowly. “I’m heading to the Ministry myself, so you may accompany me.” They started walking down the street, Metatron hurrying his little legs to keep up with Runcorn. “Tell me,” Runcorn began, “how were you raised in such a way as to not realize you were a wizard. I can hear by your voice that you are from North America…”

Realizing that falsehood was the best option in this situation, and eager to practice his perfect literary talents, Metatron spun a thrilling tale of growing up in the hinterlands of the middle United States, learning to call his magical abilities Omizery with his family of boot-worshipers. He never felt truly connected to them, and they made him do all the hard work (“Oh yes,” he thought, “rock that Cinderella reference”). Growing too talented for his jealous relations, he set out to find his own way and ended up in London.

Runcorn had a tear in his eye as he replied, “That was an incredibly moving story. I’m sure a talented person like you could find a place in our Ministry.” Then they arrived at their destination, an old red telephone booth, and stepped into it. Metatron prayed to his very self that it wouldn’t be a TARDIS, because, come on. But it just descended into an underground tunnel, which opened into…woah.

Okay, Metatron would definitely take this room as his new office. It was huge and bustling, with glorious adornments and… people flying out of fireplaces? Things on the wall that constantly moved about? Whatever, it was awesome. Runcorn escorted him to a desk on the other side of the hall, past the huge gold fountain with the combination of creatures that Metatron assumed must exist here. At the desk sat a poorly-shaven man whose name tag read Eric Munch. Munch looked bored as he probed Runcorn with a weird looking stick and did the same to Metatron, who was slightly affronted.

“Wands, please,” Munch chanted and Runcorn handed his over. When Munch looked expectantly at Metatron, Runcorn leaned over the desk to speak.

“This man is a guest of mine from a foreign land. He has no wand.”

“It’s part of regulation-” Munch started, but Runcorn silenced him with a glare.

“I am a high-ranking official. You don’t want to get on my bad side, Munch.”

The scruffy man gulped and let them through.

“Ah,” Metatron internally sighed, “it’s so good to be making such lovely, minion-like friends so soon.” 

A few hours later, Metatron was ushered into a small, cozy room with four other high-ranking magical officials, including the minister himself. At their request, he showed them the impressive feats he could accomplish without a wand, such as disapparating, healing wounds, levitating objects, and casting blasting spells. His audience was duly impressed, as no one had recorded skills like these since the time of Merlin. 

“Well, Mr. uh…Metatron, that is,” Fudge began, “all I can say is that we would love to offer you some kind of position in the Ministry, wherever you see yourself most useful. We have several departments that may be of interest to-”

“Wait!” Metatron shouted, because he couldn’t listen to a word the Minister was saying. He couldn’t hear anything over the harsh pounding of his suddenly full, oversized heart. All those holes inside him, where his ambitious, conniving nature felt incomplete begged to be filled as he looked at the photograph of the lovely woman above Fudge’s head.

“Who is that woman?”

Why, uh…” Fudge turned around and looked at the picture. “That lady works for the Ministry, very nice person, she is. That clipping is from the Daily Prophet, when she took the Defense Against the Dark Arts job at Hogwarts. Her name is Dolores Umbridge.”

“Dolores Umbridge,” Metatron repeated reverently, as though he was ready to float into the sky forever. “What is Hogwarts? Where is it? Tell me.”

A different official answered this time. “It’s our school for young witches and wizards in the area. We feel it’s needed a bit more management than usual, so Ms. Umbridge kindly took up the free teaching position for us.”

“You said Ms. Umbridge. Is she married?”

“Um, no,” Fudge answered, looking confused.

Metatron had never before felt what he had so often heard described in books. Those tender feelings, that Romeo and Juliet-like longing. Wow, he should have played up the love sections in his Break Castiel’s Heart script. But he would play it up for himself. He decided to take his chance, that he might get to know this lovely pink-clad teacher. “Well, I myself am a great believer in education and teaching the ignorant youth. In fact I am not afraid to say that I am more applauded than any other for my extensive knowledge of literature.”

“Literature!” Fudge chuckled. “Well, that may be an important subject in Muggle education, Metatron, but it is of little use in a world of magic.”

“Little use!” Metatron fumed, “LITTLE USE! Literature is everything, Stories shape our society more than anything else. How we view the world! How we learn1 How we gain power and keep it! All the answers are buried in the pages of out fictional works! Tell me, how many wizard fictional authors can you name?”

Fudge was rather alarmed. “Other than Beedle the Bard and Flimicus Wolfgang, I can’t think of-”

“Oh, cruel world that you wretched ones live in! Minister, I beg you! Let me teach a Literature class at Hogwarts!”

“It is a school of magic, Metatron! We mustn’t forget-”

“Minister, I will incorporate magic into the class in ways you’ve never dreamed of. What’s important about learning a story is that you can learn to make your own. Think of the possibilities with magic on your side!”

Fudge looked torn, his face puffed up and red as though he was constipated and one tooth sticking out over his lower lip.

“It’s November now, Minister. I could start next term.”

“Very well, Metatron. We will attempt your experiment. But it will be an elective class! And Dolores will be keeping a sharp eye on you.”

“Oh, I hope so,” Metatron thought. He laughed. One day in this place and he already had the world by the short and curlies.


	2. Now I'm a Believer

Metatron arrived at Hogwarts in January a few days before the start of term, reveling in his perfectly crafted curriculum and eager to meet his star-crossed love (because that’s totally how it works). But she wasn’t here yet, sadly. Instead, he would have to meet with the “headmaster” of the school, Albus Duffledore or something, who looked like an unnecessarily ostentatious Gandalf. 

Metatron was a tad disappointed as he huffed up the lawn towards the great castle. Sure, it was majestic, but it still looked too dull for a school of magic. Even the camps he had planned out for his human slaves had fun visuals. At least this Dumlebore buffoon had the tact to meet him in the great hall. He offered Metatron a small bow, which Metatron returned with a flourish and an obsequious smile. He then escorted the tiny angel to his office, which was far better decorated than the hall and corridors.

“So,” Dumbledore began, smiling slightly and looking at Metatron over his half-moon spectacles, “you plan to teach literature here at Hogwarts. It is certainly a novel idea for the school, but many students are delighted with the prospect. I am partial to many of the classic Muggle novels myself.”

Metatron looked Dumbledore over for a moment. “I’m glad to here you say so professor, since most wizards are tragically blind to the arts of fictional story telling. Who are your favorites?”

Dumbledore chuckled. “Oh, nothing unusual: Joseph Conrad, Jonathan Swift, the lovely Jane Austen. I think you will find a great deal of acceptance and curiosity from most of our staff, perhaps excepting the High Inquisitor.”

“High Inquisitor?”

“Ah. Forgive me. You are familiar with our current Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Dolores Umbridge?”

Metatron’s chest swelled like that one time when Castiel pumped too much air into the pimpmobile’s tire and it exploded. “I have not yet had the honor of meeting her, but yes, I am.”

“Well, she has been promoted to High Inquisitor, meaning she has certain powers over rule enforcement and staffing. You may find your biggest challenge is convincing her of the worth of your subject. She would rather keep to the roots of magical learning, away from non-wizarding influence.” Dumbledore conjured a dainty cup of tea from thin air and sipped on it delicately.

Metatron was momentarily ruffled by this, but he soon pulled himself back to confidence. His poor beloved was simply bereft of the eye-opening influence of his intellect. Once she spoke to him and saw his many powers and charms, she would see how right centuries of study proved him to be. So, Metatron smiled and responded cheerfully. “Perhaps not at first, headmaster, but I think magical ability is limited when the mind behind it never learned to reach deep into its imagination. Others will learn this too, in time.” 

Dumbledore gave him an upraising look, then nodded, apparently satisfied. “I suppose you will want to settle in, Professor Metatron. It does take a few days to become acquainted with the castle. The students arrive in three days, and until then you may prepare as you like. Staff may invite you to meetings in the mean time. Dobby?” At that, a loud crack resounded in the office and a small house elf with huge green eyes, a maroon sweater, and mismatched socks appeared in the room. He bowed to Dumbledore, who said, “Please escort Professor Metatron to the teacher’s quarters, Dobby. His luggage should already be there.”

“Yes, sir,” the elf squeaked and then beckoned Metatron to follow him out of the room.

Metatron knew about house elves by this time, thank you very much, but he still had some questions for this one.

“Your name is Dobby, correct?”

Dobby nodded, making his ears flop ridiculously. “I’m curious Dobby. How were you able to apparate here? Even I can’t do it.” Metatron was resentful about this. He was supposed to be on a higher plane than these wand-wavers. Not that he hadn’t bought a wand, of course. In fact, he was fond of it: Pine and Dragon Heartstring, eight and a half inches long. He sighed and stroked the wand through his robe. Dobby brought him back to the present by answering in his squeaky little voice. 

“House elves’s magic is different, sir. Protection charms is not working the same on us.”

“Interesting.” Metatron smiled deviously. Here he had the potential for hundreds of tiny minions who are unaffected by regular magic. Score.

When Metatron got to his room (quite drab, disappointingly), he pulled out his wand and tried casting some of the spells he had looked up. Being an angel certainly helped, because he could do each spell non-verbally on the first try, even things he couldn’t do before, like a tickling charm or conjuring birds. “I’m awesome,” he said to himself in the mirror, while levitating himself up about three feet taller. Before going to sleep that night, he magically tacked a picture of “dearest Dolores” from the Daily Prophet next to his closet. 

 

Over the following two days, Metatron got to know the staff somewhat. They were all willing to start a conversation, but they got tired of listening to him fairly quickly. They were idiots, each of them. And soon he resolved to have them in his power. The only professor willing to speak to him at length was Trelawney, but as soon as he learned that Umbridge had discharged her last semester, he wanted nothing to do with the supposed seer. She was either a fraud or had an off-putting Cassandra complex anyway.

Metatron was lounging in his room, scheming, when an unusually scared and shaky house elf knocked, entered, and told him that the High Inquisitor would “like to see him now, if you please, sir.”

Immediately, he popped up and straightened his appearance. He ran over to his sink and mirror to check that nothing hideous was on his face, then turned back to the elf with forced composure and his nose in the air. “Of course, I will see her now.”

They wound up the castle to the door of Umbridge’s office, where the house elf bowed and left him. Metatron took a deep breath and knocked.

“Come in,” a high voice crooned, sending shivers down Metatron’s spine. He opened the door and saw a world of pink. Pink walls, pink furniture with pink doilies, pink clothes, and a wall covered in kitten-adorned china, many of which were pink. Metatron looked at it all with awe.

“Do sit,” the squat woman said in a viley saccharine tone. Metatron sat, speechless, and found that the plush-looking pink cushions on the chair were surprisingly hard. 

“So,” Umbridge began, “you are going to teach a, ah, literature course this term. I can’t help saying that I’m surprised, although I certainly trust Fudge’s judgement.” She started pouring copious amounts of sugar in her tea and stirring it. “I would like to hear from you why you believed this would be a good idea.”

Metatron was almost too distracted to hear her. He loved the chemically sweet smell of the room, and the mews of the kittens on every wall were somehow reminding him of the cries the angels made as he dropped them all back to Earth: such sweet justice at last. He managed to form a coherent answer. 

“After observing the nature of wizarding life here in the United Kingdom, it is obvious to me that the majority of magical people lack imagination. The curriculum at Hogwarts teaches memorization and skills, but the students are never asked to create something truly original, or to value their owns ideas above the ideas of others. Literature will open up those doors, and then the possibilities are infinite.”

Umbridge smiled in the most evil and hateful manner Metatron had ever seen. It warmed his heart. “Well, Professor, you may be passionate about these ideas, but shaking the foundations of wizarding society is the last thing we need for these students. I’m afraid they’ve been allowed to run wild for too long. They need discipline.”

Metatron raised his hands to backpedal. “Obviously, I’m the new one here, and I will never contradict that young brats need discipline.” He leaned in and lowered his voice alluringly, “How do you punish them?”

Deliberately, Umbridge reached into her desk, pulled out a jet black quill, and handed it to Metatron. “Write something.”

Looking skeptical, he quickly jotted “I’m the best” on an envelope. He immediately felt a sting on the hand and looked down to find his own words carved there for just a moment, before they faded away.

Metatron looked up at Umbridge with a joyful grin on his face, drinking in Umbridge’s entire frame. 

“Professor?” she asked, looking uncomfortable for the first time.

“You!” Metatron sprang to his feet and paced the office excitedly. “Dolores Umbridge, you are the person I am looking for! You are a perfect literary contradiction: evil in the form of all that is nice and sweet. You are willing to go to any length to squash your enemies, all the while climbing up the ladder and waiting for your chance. Am I wrong?”

“No, but I got where I am on my own-“

“You got here by knowing the right people, by sucking up and proceeding step by step. But that will never get you all the way there!” Metatron slammed both hands on her desk and leaned forward. “You don’t know, because you have not studied what I have, but people are predictable. They work in specific, unchangeable ways, and if you know how to pull the right strings, they sit in the palm of your hand whether they know it or not. I want power, Dolores, and my methods can take me there. They have before. What I want now is to have you by my side, to share all that I gain with you.”

He stepped back a bit, and stared at her for a long moment. She had been staring at him unblinkingly throughout his speech, not moving a muscle. 

Finally he reached his hand out toward her.

 

“Do you want to rule the world with me?”


End file.
